A Scandalous Lady (10 page)

Snapped from her spell, Faith scrambled backward off Troyce. Her knee caught him between his thighs. Troyce gasped, cupped himself, and swung one leg over the other as pain ricocheted through a stiff and highly sensitive portion of his anatomy.

Faith cried out and instantly crawled to his side while Miles, the damned scoundrel, fell back on his arse and burst into peals of hilarity.

“Quit laughing, you buffoon!” Faith scolded him. Turning to Troyce, her hands fluttered above his lower half, but she didn't seem to know where to touch him. “Oh, God, Baron, did I hurt you?”

Spots danced before his eyes. Beads of cold sweat broke out on his brow. He was afraid to move, afraid to breathe. Struck with a sudden and all-too-realistic insight of how a horse might feel being gelded, Troyce could do no more than singe the air with dockside vulgarities.

“Damn it, stop swearin' and answer me! Are you all right?”

Her concern penetrated the painful haze befogging his brain. “Quite all right,
cherie
,” Troyce assured her through gritted teeth. “Just give me a moment.”

“Ah God, what a lark!” Miles roared with laughter.

Faith glared at him. “I cannot believe that you think this is funny!”

He only laughed harder.

“Faith,” Troyce said, “that guffawing jackanapes over there is Lord Miles Heath, my soon-to-be
former
best friend. Miles, this is Faith. She has recently joined my staff.”

“Indeed?” Miles said, bringing his mirth under control. Cobalt blue eyes that had melted female hearts all over the world glittered with lingering amusement as he leaned over and took Faith's hand in his own. “You always did have impeccable taste in servants.”

A becoming flush rose in Faith's cheeks when Miles lightly kissed the tips of her knuckles, and an odd sense of possessiveness gripped Troyce's insides. “And you've always been notorious for your bad timing.”

Irritation made his tone harsher than it should have been. In truth, Troyce supposed he should be grateful that only Miles had caught him and Faith in such a scandalous position. Anyone walking by could have seen him flat on his back in the middle of his study floor, Faith atop him, her skirts hiked up to her knees like a common tart. Rumors would have flown, and the chance he'd wanted to give her for a respectable living ruined. And it would have been all his fault. What the hell had he been thinking?

Kissing Faith, that's what he'd been thinking. If he were honest with himself, he'd admit that he'd been thinking about a whole lot more than kissing her. What man wouldn't, with the lushness of a comely woman's breasts crushed against his chest, her shapely legs entwined with his, her sweet lips mere inches from his own . . . ?

Heading off the thoughts before they spun into a direction best not traveled again, Troyce forced himself to sit. A cramp seized his gut; his world went from pitch-black to blinding white. In that instant, he didn't see how the morning could get any worse.

Then Devon walked in.

Chapter 6

“T
royce, I simply must speak to you about that—good heavens!”

Three sets of eyes turned as one toward the doorway where Devon stood, Lucy behind her, both wearing identical expressions of shock.

“
What
is going on here?”

Troyce knew how it must look—himself sprawled on the floor, Faith, hovering over him, her hair mussed, her cheeks flushed, and Miles all but slobbering over her hand.

“A small mishap, Devon, nothing more.” He rolled to his side, pushed himself off the floor, and struggled to his feet. At least his stomach had settled and the sharp throbbing in his groin had subsided. There was still a lingering tenderness, but his equipment didn't seem to have sustained any permanent damage. He was lucky he hadn't been crippled. “Faith, perhaps you should see if Millie needs any assistance in the kitchen.”

Nodding vigorously, she marched past Devon, out of the study. As if sensing that her presence was not required, either, Lucy followed, leaving himself, Miles, and Devon alone in the room.

The air went thick with tension. A near-violent electricity swirled between his sister and his best friend, a storm of disquiet. The two shared a past, he knew, as childhood friends and sweethearts. There was a time when he even thought they'd marry. But their parents had had more influence over his sister than he'd thought. Neither Devon nor Miles had ever discussed the events of that night eight years ago, nor had he ever pressed for details; whatever had happened between them to drive Miles to America and Devon into the arms of Miles's older brother was between the two of them.

But neither had been the same since.

The dense silence finally broke when Devon hissed, “What is
he
doing here?”

“Miles is here at my request.”

Her face went ashen, and betrayal glittered in her eyes, so brilliant and wounding that Troyce had to look away. It was hell when a man was forced to choose between his best mate and his only sister. “Was there something you wished to discuss with me?”

“Another time, perhaps. This room has developed a decidedly foul odor.”

And she followed in Faith's wake.

“She's hasn't changed a bit, has she? Still has her nose so far up in the air that she'd drown if it rained.”

Troyce would have disagreed if it wasn't so true.

“I appreciate you coming by on such notice, Miles,” Troyce said.

“If I'd have known you had feisty beauties falling from the ceiling, I'd have been over much sooner. I've always fancied strawberry blondes.”

Realizing from the description that he was referring to Faith and not Devon, Troyce turned to his friend. Lord Miles Heath boasted much to interest the ladies. Blond good looks, a sizable bank account, and more charm than devil on his best day. It was not uncommon for those of the fairer sex to make utter fools of themselves to gain his notice. “Cast your eyes elsewhere, mate, she is far out of your league.”

“Oh-ho, so that's the way of it!”

“The way of what?”

“You're taken with the chit yourself.”

“Don't be absurd. She's a servant.”

“Since when has that stopped you?”

Troyce thought of his short liaison with Lucy a decade ago, and of other dalliances with chambermaids during his misspent youth, both in England and abroad. His mother had been horrified by his womanizing, but his father had seen no harm in it. Nor had Troyce. Sowing oats he'd called it. But those women were different, they'd played the games before and knew the rules. Faith didn't have that advantage. Aye, she was a servant, and considering his history, it probably shouldn't make a difference to him. Yet the thought of indulging himself with her to satisfy his own sexual appetites seemed somehow—sacrilegious. “She's an innocent.”

“She didn't look so innocent a few minutes ago.” Miles dropped into the seat of a Hepplewhite chair, hooked one leg over the arm, and folded his arms behind his head in a typically ungentleman-like pose. “Where on earth did you find such a gel?”

“Outside Jorge's. The cheeky chit picked my pocket.”

After pouring fresh coffee from the server and spiking both cups with a dose of brandy, Troyce went on to tell his friend of the meeting with Feagin, up to and including his nasty abuse of Faith and her young companion. It never occurred to him to hide his activities from Miles. They'd known each other since birth; their coastal properties joined on the westernmost tip. Miles had accompanied him to America after that last horrible row between him and his father and grandfather. With the exception of what had transpired between his friend and his sister, there was nothing the two didn't know about each other, no secret that hadn't been shared, no adventure that hadn't been experienced together.

But for the first time in their lives, after he'd explained Faith's appearance in his life and his subsequent falling-out with his investor, he wished he'd kept his mouth shut.

“Good God, West, just make her return the money!”

“I tried. She claimed not to have it. I suspect she passed it on to her young cohort.”

“Then make her get it back.”

Why didn't he? It would be the most logical solution. Bloody hell. America had made him weak. Or England had made him daft. Better he started worrying about his own predicament than squander time pondering his newest serving girl. Easier said than done if he could just erase the picture in his mind of her defending the scamp. “I fear the money is long gone.”

“Has it occurred—never mind.”

“What?”

“Nothing. 'Tis none of my affair.”

“You've not hoarded your opinions to yourself before, Miles. Pray don't let yourself be stopped now.”

His friend turned to him, visibly debating with himself. “All right,” he gave a decisive nod. “The situation strikes me as a bit too convenient. A seemly chit accosts you outside a tavern, robs you of your last farthing before it's even grown warm in your hand, then allows you to drag her off the streets into your home. . . .”

“What are you saying?”

“Has it not occurred to you that perhaps your pretty little wench may have planned the entire charade?”

“That's ridiculous, Miles.”

“You are not without reputation.”

“And you are being overly cynical. Even if she had known me, she could not have known that I would bring her to my home instead of turning her over to the authorities. She is what she is.”

“Aye, and that's what worries me. We're no longer callow boys, West. We know what it's like to scrape bottom. We've tasted despair and been embroiled in desperation, or have you forgotten the early days?”

“Of course I haven't forgotten.” Hell he'd been young and full of himself, so cocksure he could conquer the world in a day. Learning that the world fought tooth and nail had been a nasty awakening for himself and Miles.

“From what you've told me, the gel's spent most of her life on the streets. She's a survivor, West. I'd bet my last farthing that she's learned how to use the talents God gave her well, just as we did. She would not be the first pretty wench to try and lure you into a compromising situation for her advantage.”

Again, it was on the tip of his tongue to refute the charges being cast against Faith, but as much as Troyce wanted to dismiss them, a seed of doubt had been planted. What if Miles was right? Had Faith plotted the whole scenario? And if so, had he simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, or had he been marked a pigeon from the start?

It was hard to believe Faith guilty of such duplicity. She was too . . . outspoken. Straightforward. But comments she'd made seemed to support the charge: his being “rich as Midas,” her seemingly casual interest in his lineage. . . . As Miles had pointed out, she was a street survivor. That made her wiser to manipulation than the average gel.

Well, if she thought to use him to better herself, then she could think again. His father had fallen into that trap—married a woman who wanted him for his position and fortune after she'd lured him into compromising her reputation. He'd been too besotted by her to notice. And if Faith thought to rook him out of a fortune, she'd soon learn the error of her ways. He no longer had a fortune to rook.

“Your point is well taken. But I didn't invite you here to discuss Faith.”

“Then what did you invite me over to discuss?”

“Real estate.”

He handed over a velum slip, which Miles scanned, eyes growing wide in astonishment.

“The deed to Radcliff?”

Both were well aware that the paper was nearly priceless. Privately owned town houses were a rarity in London, and to possess a deed bespoke of a prestige that far exceeded the title.

“You've long coveted property closer to the city.”

“Aye, but Radcliff?”

“I need the money, and I'm running out of options,” Troyce stated without preamble.

“Isn't this a bit extreme?”

“Until I find an investor, I can't repair the ship, which means I cannot pay the taxes on any of the family holdings, so I will lose them to my father's creditors unless I sell. And I'd much rather you have Radcliff than let it revert to the crown.”

“I've offered to invest in
La Tentatrice
, Troyce.”

“If she belonged only to me, there is no one I would trust more. But I'm sure you understand why I can't accept your generous offer.”

“It is extended to you, not
her
.” Venom dripped from that one word, reminding Troyce of the pain his sister had caused to his best mate.

“Be that as it may, Devon holds half interest and she would never forgive me if I entered into an agreement with you.”

“Then for God's sake, let me at least lend you the money to settle your father's debts.”

“If I were confident that I could pay you back, I might consider it.” Miles had accomplished what he set out to do in America—made himself incomparable in fortune and power. Troyce had never wished for their friendship to be tarnished because of it, and so never called upon his friend's good fortune or generous nature to bail him out of trouble. “But you and I both know that there are no guarantees that Westborough can be salvaged, or that
La Tentatrice
will sell, and I will not compromise our friendship.”

Miles held up the sheaf of papers and cocked his head. “Is Beckham aware of this?”

“I don't feel the need to inform my grandfather. Radcliff belonged to my father, not him, and I've never held any attachment to it.”

At length, Miles's sigh of resignation conveyed that he considered himself a carrion preying on a dead carcass. What he couldn't seem to understand was that Troyce would be glad to rid himself of the house where his father had drawn his last breath. To him, it signified nothing more than a last, desperate extravagance to please a mother who would never be pleased.

“How much?” his friend asked.

Troyce quoted the figure he'd arrived at, enough to pay off Feagin and settle the enormous balance of his father's debts, as well as provide a small household stipend once they moved back to Westborough.

With a stiff nod, Miles agreed on the amount and scribbled his signature on the sheets of paper Troyce presented. After he took his leave, Troyce picked up the promissory note and his copy of the signed bill of sale.

First, the loss of two hundred pounds and an investor for his ship; now, he was giving up his London town house. Bloody hell, what was he to lose next?

 

“Did you enjoy making a spectacle of yourself with his lordship?”

Her heart racing faster than an Ascot thoroughbred, Faith spun around so quickly that the tray of silverware she'd been instructed to pack scattered across the floor. Had her nerves not been so highly strung from the scene in the baron's study, she would have heard the footsteps approaching from behind. Crikey, not even a full day away from the streets and already her senses were dulling.

She knelt and began plucking utensils off the polished floor. “Bugger off, Lucy, I've got work to do.”

“Yes, I saw you at work.” She laughed. “I also saw the way you looked at him.” She sauntered deeper into the dining room and stood at the table, trailing her fingers along the surface. “You're wasting your time, you know. Men like Lord Westborough care nothing for a woman's sensibilities, they care only about getting them into their beds.”

“Lord Westborough has no interest in bedding me.”

“Either you are the stupidest chit I've ever met or the most naive. For reasons I cannot fathom, his lordship fancies you. But do not fool yourself into thinking his interest will gain you any advantages. You're fresh duck, that's all. You can throw yourself at him, flaunt yourself before him, seduce him till the crows molt. But it will not change the fact that he's nobility, and you're nothing but a common scullery maid. He will amuse himself with you, nothing more.”

“Really? And how would you know what amuses the baron?”

“Because I've been one of his amusements.”

Faith longed to swipe that superior smirk off her face. “Yes, I can see that you would be.”

Her pallid face turned three shades of red, and if looks were daggers, Faith would have been sliced to shreds. “Mock me if you will, but mark my words, 'tis I who will be laughing in the end, because when the time comes, Lord Westborough will do his duty and marry a lady of breeding and
you
will be left with nothing save a broken heart and the shame of his bastard in your belly.”

With that parting remark, Lucy spun on her ankle and walked out of the dining room.

Faith remained on the floor on her knees, her fingers clenched around the hilt of sterling silver serving spoon. What she wouldn't do for five minutes—just five minutes—alone with the uppity little she-cat in a back-street alley. . . .